Short rant. Large topic.
It's ridiculous. It's exhausting. It's everywhere.
We (collective as a society 'we' including me cuz I'm guilty of it, too) can't just let people... people in public.
I have a date today and I'm sitting here stressing over how I'll look, my hair and makeup, what I will wear and all I really wanna wear is something fucking comfortable cuz life is hard, motherhood is hard. Hard.
Yes, it happens to be running shoes.
Yes, it happens to be black running tights.
Yes, a hoodie.
Yes, no makeup.
Yes, my hair is in an emotional bun on top of my head.
Yes, coffee is my friend.
It is a stereotype because it's true. These things in combination are fantastic.
It's a joke because it's funny to those who don't live it... or who's shoes are too tight. Or who's hair didn't do the thing they wanted it to. Or who didn't wear their Big Girl Panties to the life party.
Why do we do that to people? Why do we expect them to be special in public? Well dressed? Fit? Beautified? Why isn't every fucking day of the week Casual Friday? Why can't we be casual? Why can't we shift the focus to all that stupid shit that's so unimportant like well-restedness, happiness, ease of movement, and joy?
She likes head scritches. She showed me. She rustles her little fingers across her hair when she wants me to scritch her head like a little puppy, nails digging and circles made.
She likes playing with the trucks. The ones that roll and make noise. Especially the fire truck that belongs to her cousin.
She likes baby shark and she wants it now. It doesn't help that I've been humming that infectious tunes to her since birth and mumbling the wrong words of ''baby Dorf" her whole life. If there's a screen on, she wants it to be that. I've also provided her with a decoy remote so she can pretend to 'turn it up' with her mouth.
She wears size four diapers and the box says 'toddler' on it and I may have ugly cried while carrying it inside.
She sleeps to dream more. The way her little limbs twitch and she cries out or coos in the night tells me so.
When she wants to be picked up she signals with her little hands, similar to the sign language for milk.
She tests me. When she touches things she's not supposed to and I inevitably make that erroneous mom noise she just stares at me, smirks, and reaches out again.
That's right, but they never attack the same place twice. They were testing the fences for weaknesses, scientifically. They remember.
She no longer cries at the sight of her Dad. Or my girlfriends. Or people in general.
She waves hello and good bye (AND YOU BETTER FUCKING WAVE BACK TO MY BABY OR I WILL COME AT YOU LIKE A RABID RACCOON WITH THE HEAT AND GUILT OF A THOUSAND SUNS)
She cruises along furniture and crawls like the wind.
She can pick things up and shove them in her mouth with minute accuracy at the speed of light.
She loves to be read to and loves picking out the books and turning the pages with me.
This is just the tip of the Nugget iceberg, the tiniest of fractions of what she amazes me with. She cracks me up and I love her more every day.
Man oh man, she's goooooing thrrrrrroooouuuugh chhhhhaaaaaaaannnnges.
Confession: I had to google how to pronounce the word 'sentient' today.
Fact: I was saying it wrong.
Dotty is sentient and it shows and shows and shows. Don't get me wrong, I was fully aware that she is a perceptive and feeling human being, but there's been a shift in her showing it. My Babe is ten months old and makes me laugh like a madwoman. She does things hoping to illicit a desired response and I can see it in her actions on the regular. Whether it be in the bath when she wants a toy, in the high chair when she squeals for a bite, or any other time she wants to tell me whats on her mind. One of my new favorite things is the belly blowing.
Since she was a tiny little Beeble I've been kissin on her belly and blowing raspberries onto it after baths, while changing diapers, while we play--anytime and all the time. It's just too cute of a little belly to ignore and the well-termed cute aggression gets the best of me. Plus, her little bellybutton is just staring back at me and that's where we started, tied together by pulse and blood.
Recently our bed time routine has begun to more consistently have book reading and some baby led play time. We read through three or four books and then I do what she does, I follow her lead, we wind down without screens.
But she, little adorable, has begun blowing raspberries on *my* belly and quickly turning her cute little cherub face to mine to make sure I'm laughing.
Oh my god the melts.
She's so tender and pure and soft and strong and smart and I just.... I just can't even.
I've been ''fortunate'' enough to be able to stay home with my baby since she was born--all ten months.
I use quotey fingers because fortune is one of those concepts that is relative, that's divided, defined by shades of grass, and is certainly fickle.
Lemme spell out this ''fortune'' for you--you few who apparently exist and think it's my white privilege? my spoiled luck? my daddy's retirement? mommy's handout?
I've lived the last ten months on lock down--zero income with minimal output. All money paid in the form of child support has, in fact, gone to child support--clothing, diapers, breastfeeding expenses, formula, shelter, and medical. All whopping $250 of it. I've taken to nannying (taking to school, picking up from school, and babysitting) my nephew a few days a week so I can pay my phone bill and maybe put gas in my car. I've moved back in with my mother who a) has a house that needs constant work b) has rheumatoid arthritis as a result of her breast cancer so she literally needs a hand constantly c) she's my bestie and was on disability for the last year unable to work d) I'm basically a very loving, very grateful indentured servant e) I'm a really great cook and she needs me.
I've had to utterly re-write my existence.
I've gone from pre-baby thriving career in art, self-sustained creator to.... a new mom artist, paving her way as she goes, scraping by and saving pennies. Alone. I've set aside personal coping skills, creative skills, social skills, and physical comforts to be with this baby for the last ten months. I'm a shell of a Mallory, a skeleton of a past self, along with the upgrade of mother.
Take your ''fortunate'' and turn to your partner and thank them for:
Or... take your fortunate and shove it up your snatch.
I would not change one damn thing.
Mallory Kate is a blogger, artist, single mom and funny girl outta Nevada.
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